


The Price of Peace, The Cost of War

by Murreleteer



Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Aftercare, Angst, Bittersweet, Extremely Dubious Consent, Forced Prostitution, Hugs, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Political Expediency, Psychological Trauma
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-11-17
Updated: 2014-11-17
Packaged: 2018-02-25 19:35:00
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,844
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2633693
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Murreleteer/pseuds/Murreleteer
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>For the sake of France and peace with Savoy, Captain Treville is forced to give Porthos a devastating assignment. It and its aftermath leave both men questioning their faith in the Musketeers, and in each other.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Price of Peace, The Cost of War

**Author's Note:**

> Originally posted at the kink meme [here](http://bbcmusketeerskink.dreamwidth.org/1213.html?thread=1254333#cmt1254333)
> 
> Prompt (which I straight up filled, for once): _A visiting royal (or whoever, canon character or not) takes a fancy to one of the King's Musketeers. The King asks Treville to make it happen, either to smooth over foreign relations or keep peace at court._
> 
>  **This story contains:** extreme dubcon bordering on non con, forced prostitution, rough sex (all more or less off page but referenced and discussed), emotional trauma, sadness, a lot of angst.

When Treville got back to the garrison, he made sure his office door was closed and the shutters latched before he sat down behind his desk and let his head sink into his hands. There was, he knew, a bottle of fine Cognac in the cabinet beside his desk, but even the thought of drinking made him feel ill. There'd been enough of that going on at court.

 _At least_ , he thought, _The King had the grace to tell me himself, though how he had the stomach for it..._. Treville gathered that the preliminary negotiations had happened through agents: a minister going to a secretary, who'd taken the request to Richelieu, who'd made sure the price was worth it before going to the King, who had given the order directly to Treville.

Now Treville was the one who had to implement it, and he didn't know if he could. "For the good of France, my ass," he muttered, but it was sickeningly true. War was coming, a damnable multi-fronted nightmare of a war, and France needed every friend and ally it could get. Even the right state at the right time agreeing to neutrality could save thousands of boys at the front. If all that took was the sacrifice of a few soldiers' honour, well...

Treville groaned into his hands. A few soldiers: him and one other, and worse still, the King had told him to choose. Either of the guards from that day, the request had said, seeming not to care which. The only thing that mattered was one man's pleasure, that and the humiliation of one of France's finest.

He couldn't put it off. The King had told him it was to be that night, after the state dinner, which ended in just a few hours. Treville was meant to have been there, but the King had excused him. "Other duties," he would say, an easy excuse to give for a soldier, but one at the table would smile, knowing just what those duties were.

This was no good, Treville had to choose, and he had to do it now. The more time his man had to prepare, the less damage it would do, he hoped, and if the first asked refused, he would need time to ask the other. Treville supposed that he might ask them both and let them decide amongst themselves, but with his beloved, clod-headed idiots, they'd only fight to the death over who had the honour of suffering for the other. No, they were Treville's men, and it was Treville's choice.

Lifting his head, he took a moment to gather himself and straighten his uniform before he strode to the door, opened it, and shouted a name into the courtyard.

He returned to sit behind his desk, then rose and sat in stood in front. It would seem more like an order with the desk between them, and he wanted it to be a choice.

 _Or is that mere cowardice?_ he wondered. _Am I simply shifting the responsibility to another's shoulders?_ If he ordered the man to action, he could blame Treville, or the King, and thus leave his soul unstained. If he were given the choice, would he think there was something wrong with him? Something profaned. The thought choked Treville, and he almost retreated behind the desk.

Then he thought of the man in question, and how few decisions he'd been permitted in his life, and could not do it. He of all the company deserved the chance to refuse. Just as Treville came to that resolution, the man himself swaggered in.

He had his hat tucked under his arm, and his thumbs in his belt, and if he weren't in his captain's office, having just been yelled for, he would probably be whistling. He was handsome and confident, and just looking at him almost made Treville want to send him back out the door with a message to tell the King where to stuff his "little request." Almost.

"Porthos," Treville started, and then his words failed. How the hell did one even begin?

"Captain?" Porthos looked at him quizzically, not missing his position in front of the desk, rather than behind it.

"The King..." Treville started, but no, that wasn't right. He had to explain it so that it made sense, so that Porthos would understand how he could even ask such a thing of one of his own men, of someone he'd sworn to look after. "What do you know of the treaty negotiations?"

Porthos shrugged. "Not much. They're not officially happening, are they?"

That was the theory. In truth, all of Paris knew what was going on, and therefore all of Europe as well. Treville explained anyway. "His Majesty and the Cardinal are hoping to convince Maximilian of Bavaria to side against his master should war come with the Hapsburg empires. He won't, but he might agree to remain neutral. He doesn't want Spanish troops on his soil any more than we do."

"So why's the Duke of Savoy here?" Porthos asked, he was following Treville's explanations placidly, seeming to trust that he needed to know this, and that it would all eventually become relevant to him.

"Maximilian asked him to be here, as a neutral party." Though Catholic to a man, oddly no one seemed to want to count on the Church to be that. "Victor Amadeus soldiered under him before he was Duke. The Elector trusts his opinion."

"I thought he hated us." Porthos glanced over his shoulder, as if checking that no one was listening at the shutters. He lowered his voice anyway, "After last year, with Marsac trying to kill him, and us hiding that old man in the jail, he didn't seem to happy." He didn't mention the story of Musketeers trying to kill him, but it hung in the room, another mantel of shame that Treville could never hope to put off.

"We're relying on his good graces, and through him the Elector's," Treville said, resigned. His whole body felt heavy, and he wished that he could sink back to sit on the edge of the desk, but he would not allow himself the weakness, not now. If he had to delivery one of his men to the devil, he would do it with chin up and shoulders square. "You know what's at stake."

Porthos nodded. That too all of Paris and therefore Europe knew. Everyone could taste it in the air, the race to strengthen France's armies and gather allies before war came, and Spain and Austria crushed them utterly. No wonder Richelieu and the King had spent the last three years grasping for funds like drowning men for a beam. No wonder they now sold even honour.

"It's in the Duke's interests to support us," Treville continued. "He's our ally and holds our border and we his." He took a breath. "But he would like us to meet a condition first." A little humiliation, a proof that they didn't own him, Treville thought, but did not say aloud. He would not introduce it on those terms. Porthos would figure that part out soon enough.

"And you need me to do it," Porthos said, still not clear on what was required of him, still trusting Treville to send him down an honourable path. What was it about Savoy that always seemed to cost him his soul?

"His wife, Duchess Christine, is not with him," Treville said, then realised there was no easing into this. Porthos knew the background, he had a right to the request plainly stated. He cleared his throat. "In her absence, he has expressed a desire for a bedmate this evening."

Porthos blinked. "You want me to find him a whore? I'd think Aramis..." He fell silent at Treville's expression. "What?"

"He doesn't want us to find him a companion, dammit. He wants a Musketeer. He wants you." Treville wished with all his heart that he could look away, but he forced himself to keep his eyes fixed on Porthos face. He watched as his eyes widened, then narrowed, and then his mouth turned down and his jaw set. That last was anger, Treville thought, and nearly prayed for it to be directed at him, but Porthos didn't say a word. He simply watched Treville steadily and waited for an explanation that made sense. Unfortunately, Treville didn't have one, all he had was this sickening bargain that was somehow supposed to save them all. "He wants you naked and in his bed after dinner tonight, to do with as he pleases, or he's sworn to turn Maximilian's heart against us."

Were Porthos a study cast in bronze, he would have showed more expression. The only sign that he even bore life was the pulse point throbbing at this throat, and the twitch of his shoulders as his fists clenched tight. Treville waited, until finally Porthos said, "I guess I don't have much choice."

"I won't order you," Treville told him. "I couldn't."

Porthos snorted, a sound utterly without humour. "That doesn't make it a choice."

"No, it doesn't. I'm sorry."

A shoulder rose a fraction of an inch, and then fell. He wouldn't look at Treville, his eyes instead fixed on the edge of the cabinet. "Not your fault, Sir." 

"Nor yours," Treville told him. "You know I wouldn't ask unless..."

Porthos nodded, and Treville fell silent again, letting the man take his time. Finally he sighed and said, "There're worse ways to serve King and Country. You have your man."

Treville couldn't think of any, but if that was what Porthos needed to believe, he let him have it. "We should go," he said.

"Why me?"

The question came suddenly, as Treville was almost at the door. He stopped and turned, hesitating. Again he felt torn again between what was best for his man's piece of mind, and a debt to tell him the truth. Should he say that the Duke had simply picked Porthos because he liked his looks? Then Porthos could bemoan his luck and move on, but the truth fell harder, and closer to home. During the Duke's last visit, Treville had learned that his finest men would worry at a problem until they wore through to the truth, and then hate him for trying to protect them from it. "The Duke said that he would like one of the Musketeers on guard at court this afternoon. He didn't say which."

"Ah." Porthos thought for a moment, and Treville waited for the recrimination, the accusation that the Captain valued him more cheaply than the high-born, blue-blooded Athos. It didn't come, instead his expression cleared into something like calm, and he said, "Athos isn't back yet, so you asked me first. Good."

At first Treville didn't understand, but when he did he had to bite his lip to hide his relief. Here was a cause for which Porthos would sacrifice his life or his virtue without qualm: not king or country, or even his captain, but protecting the honour of his comrade. He might even keep faith with the captain who had just played his madam, because he thought there goals were aligned in that. It was even a little bit true.

"Athos made him look like an idiot in that duel last year. He'd tear him to shreds." Treville wasn't sure who Porthos meant would be doing the tearing, but could see it ending just as badly either way. "And Athos isn't..." a pause to gauge how much the Captain knew, which was everything, but Porthos didn't need to know that. "He's been better recently, but this? No."

"You're the strongest man with whom I've had the honour to serve," Treville said, and he meant every word.

Porthos didn't say anything but caught hold of Treville's upper arm and squeezed with his bone-crushing grip. For one of the only times in his career, the other also involving Savoy, Treville allowed the liberty. Porthos' eyes narrowed to slits and his expression was thunderous. "They can never know."

He didn't have to say who; Treville knew. "Agreed."

* * *

Porthos had said that he knew where the Duke's rooms were, and that Treville didn't have to go with him. Treville, who was likely damned anyway, had said that he'd go to hell before he let Porthos into that viper's nest alone, for all the good it would do either of them.

The Duke had mercifully ordered away his servants, leaving their entry unquestioned. As Treville held the door open allowing Porthos to precede him into the bedchamber, Porthos paused to pat his hand. "Thank you," he said, with enough sincerity that Treville knew that he meant for more than the door. The thought sickened him, but he forced a small smile.

"I'll be out here. If something goes wrong..." He wasn't sure what about this could possibly go right, and, from the ironic gleam in his eyes, Porthos didn't know either. "If you need him to stop, call for me. I'll end it."

"No." There was steel in Porthos' voice. "You won't. I'll do what I have to do. I know what I'm in for, and I don't need rescuing." The corner of his mouth twitched up in the ghost of a smile. "Lie back and think of France, eh?"

Treville nodded, feeling hollow. "I'll be here regardless."

He thought he saw a flash of gratitude in Porthos' eyes but then he turned away and started to undress. Before Treville could leave, he bundled his doublet around his hat, belt, blades and pistols, and held them out to Treville, saying, "You better take these. God knows what he'd do to them."

"Right," Treville said, taking the bundle. It was only when he'd shut himself in an adjoining office that he realised that Porthos had given his Captain everything about him that was connected to the Musketeers.

* * *

The moon had just passed full and rose late that night, only now coming high enough to cast squares of light into the room. Treville could make out the shapes of furniture, a line of light under the door to the salon and its fire, the bones of his knuckles as his clenched his hands together. He didn't dare a candle, and wouldn't find any distraction even if he did. He did not look at the uniform lying crumpled on the desk beside him.

Treville sat in the dark little room and waited, knowing that behind a thin wall, Porthos was doing the same. His stomach writhed into knots and pulled tight at the thought of one of his chosen heroes naked and alone, waiting for a blow that had to fall, but not knowing when or how hard. He sat on the edge of the desk's wooden chair, then rose, turned about the room, and settled in the chair once more. It would be too long a night to stand watch the whole time, especially at his age.

The nearest square of moonlight had slide a hand's width across the surface of the desk when he heard the outer doors open, and a buzz of voices from the hall: servants' questions, the Duke bidding someone goodnight. Then footsteps, a tread too heavy for even the carpets to deaden, and the bedchamber door opening, holding for a moment, and closing.

The Duke was speaking a little too loudly, crowing, and Porthos' voice lay under it, muted by compliance. Thin though they might be, the walls muffled voices until only pitch and tone remained. Treville didn't know if that was a mercy or not, if the words themselves would make a difference, or if just hearing the shape of them would only worsen his apprehension, like shadows moving in a dark wood.

Treville wondered for the first time what he was doing here, what purpose his presence could possibly serve. Even if Porthos cried for help, and he would not, what could Treville do? What would happen to the negotiations if the Captain of the King's Musketeers hauled the moderator out of his bedroom mid-coitus? Did Porthos even want him to witness this? He hadn't explicitly sent Treville away, but that could mean anything.

He stared down at his hands, folded as if in prayer and worn and scared even in the softening moonlight, and wondered how his life had come to this. He had tried to think of himself as a man of honour – _the bluff, honest man of action,_ Richelieu had called him while reminding him how he'd ordered a score of his own men to their deaths – but now he sat and listened to the man who'd killed those solders moan with pleasure, and his own brave boy make not a sound.

The bed creaked, and the moans grew louder, hasher. Treville thought he heard a whimper, but he couldn't tell. The Duke said something, a demand, then said it again when he got no response. There was Porthos' voice, a monosyllabic reply.

"I'd have cut his bloody head off," Porthos had told Athos, filled with righteous fury over what the Duke had done to his comrades, a fury that had never truly turned on Treville, no matter his responsibility. Porthos had to know. Aramis would have told him after Marsac's death, and yet Porthos had not so much as cast Treville as much as a dark look. Now that man he trusted had sold him into ruin: a David sending Uriah to his death. A Judas.

The moonlight had moved another two fingers when the the moaning stopped, and stillness overcame this room and the next. Treville let a sigh. _Could that be all?_ he wondered. _He took his pleasure; he made his point, could he not let it go at that? Dear Lord, please let that be the end of it._

Porthos murmured a question, and the Duke laughed. _Laughed_. Treville closed his eyes and let his head sink to the desk. A watchful stillness filled the Duke's apartments, but he knew the night was far from over.

Despite the pain in his gut and the weight on his conscience, to say nothing of the discomfort of his position, Treville found that he dozed a little. When he woke, it was to the sounds of voices: the Duke's demanding, Porthos' emotionless. The moonlight had shifted to the wall, making the time not long after midnight.

The bed creaked again, and Porthos groaned. Treville thought there was an edge of pain in that sound, and his hand went instinctively to the hilt of his sword, but no call for help came. He wished it was, wished he could cut the Duke to ribbons, instead of having to smile at him at court for as long of they both still lived. But Porthos was a good soldier to the bone, damn him, and though he might let a moan – or, eventually, a small cry of distress – escape his lips, he would not let himself fail in his duty.

And fail he did not, not as the Duke took him that time, nor any of the others throughout the night. Treville didn't keep count, but he knew that when the light before dawn crept into the room he felt wearier than he had since he'd last led men through a day's siege. Wearier, perhaps, for here he had the wear of responsibly and terror, but none of the thrill of battle.

One last time, the rise and fall of voices, the demand, the surrender, the groans, a mix of pleasure and pain, the pause. The worst of it was being able to tell the pattern of the thing. Then Treville heard the sound of a man readying for the morning, and the doors of the bedchamber opening. They closed again, and it occurred to Treville that the Duke might want papers before he went to breakfast. The office had no where to conceal himself, and he prepared to bluster through, but then the outer doors opened, and he heard one of Maximilian's men. The Duke left with him. Silence again.

Treville hesitated. His instinct told him to go to Porthos and look after him as well as he might, but his good sense countered that his face was probably close to the last that Porthos would want to see after what he'd been through. He wondered how long it had taken Joseph to forgive his brothers for selling him into Egypt.

His indecision lasted until he heard a rough voice call, "Captain?" 

He broke from his chair, ignoring the strain and pull of muscles that had grown too old to sit up all night, and pushed through to the bedchamber, dreading what he might see.

Porthos sat on the edge of the bed, naked, but with a sheet pulled over his lap, his hands gripped the edge of the mattress and his shoulders bowed down under an unseen weight. He looked up as Treville entered, expression first guarded then showing such open relief that it cut Treville to the bone.

"Thought you might've left." His voice sounded raw, warped higher than his customary base rumble.

Treville tried to say that of course he hadn't, but the words stuck in his throat. Instead, he crouched next to the bed, and asked, his own voice hoarse from disuse, "How badly are you hurt?"

Porthos shrugged, then winced at the movement. "Dunno," he said dully. "Not bad, I think. He didn't..." the words fell away and did not resume. Porthos' gaze dropped, fixing on the sheet across his lap.

He hadn't moved, and showed no signs of doing so, and Treville understood that any practicalities of the situation would have to be taken care of by him. "Can you walk?" he asked, hating to press, but knowing they had to leave before the servants arrived.

"Yeah, probably." He stood, ignoring Treville's extended hand, and made his way to the wash basin.

As the sheet fell away, Treville risked an assessing look. The skin around his hips had darkened with bruises, and a shallow scratch ran up one side of his ribs, but he didn't see any blood, and though Porthos moved as stiffly as he himself did, he didn't seem to favour any particular area. Treville let himself feel relieved for a moment, then sick at the idea that the only reason Porthos was even walking was because the Duke of Savoy had been merciful.

He stood by, silent, as Porthos wiped his body with a damp cloth, and wished he could help, could do something. Though he moved like a man twice his age, Porthos got into his smalls, shirt and trousers with only a little difficulty, but his boots defeated him. He winced as he tried to bend, then again as he sat on the edge of the dressing chair. Leaning forward, it seemed, was quite beyond him, and he ended up staring vacantly at the boot dangling from his grip.

"Let me," Treville said, moving towards him, but halting when Porthos shook his head.

"You don't have to, Captain. I'll get it." He muttered something else too low to hear.

Treville took a breath, wanting to hurry Porthos along, but not to risk badgering him. Instead of speaking, he simply crouched and pushed on one boot and then the other. "I'm sorry, but we have to go," he said when they were done.

This time Porthos took the offered hand and let Treville pull him to his feet. Treville felt even more relieved when Porthos asked for his uniform, and slid into his doublet and belted his sword and pistols over it. With his hat on, he looked almost normal. Only the grey underlying his dusky skin and the slowness of his gait gave him away. A stranger might not notice, but Treville did, and he knew that Aramis or Athos would spot it three streets away. 

"Do you want to go to your lodgings?" he asked. They'd made it far enough away from the Duke's rooms that Treville no longer felt as through he had a target on his back, but he knew he wouldn't be able to relax until he was out of the Louvre completely.

Porthos looked at Treville as though he'd spoken in one of the tongues of Arabia. "What?"

"Never mind." Treville herded him out of the palace gates, then engaged a carriage and directed the driver to his own house.

"They can never know," Porthos had said, his only condition of sale, but he, Athos, Aramis, and, lately, d'Artagnan, lived in each other's pockets to the extent that they thought nothing of showing up in each other's rooms with no warning and little inclination to be turned away. Their Captain's house, however, was another matter. Treville was sure that they all knew where it was, but to his knowledge only Aramis had ever set foot inside it, dispatches in hand, urgently searching for his Captain. He had quarters above his office in the garrison, where he'd spent far too many nights, but they didn't provide a sanctuary as his home did.

The sun had only just climbed over the lowest roofs, but Treville knew that his house would be awake. He paid off the driver and let Porthos follow him inside, doing as much as he could to shield the larger man from the attention of his family.

He let Eloise and Catherine kiss his cheek and Alain wrap his arms around his waist and press his face into his rumpled doublet before he sent them away, and asked Jeanne to make sure they and the servants kept clear of the guest rooms. His wife's eyes were curious, but she didn't ask. He wondered, briefly, what he'd tell her later, then dismissed the thought, focusing on getting Porthos headed down the correct hallway.

"Sleep or food?" he asked once the door was closed behind them, but Porthos looked baffled by that question as well. _I'm losing him,_ he thought. _He's too tired to deal with the shock, and he's fading away_. "Sleep then."

Porthos looked at the bed behind him and nodded slowly. He was slowing down, like a clock unwinding, and this time let Treville help him strip to his trousers and shirt, not even looking at his boots, and settle him under the blankets.

"Captain?" he asked, the first word to cross his lips in half an hour.

Treville paused, hands freezing as smoothing the counterpane over his shoulders. "Yes?"

"Would you stay?" His dark eyes were wide and heartbreakingly vulnerable. They met Treville's gaze for less than a heartbeat, then looked away.

The only thing Treville wanted more than sleep was for God to reach down and wipe the last day from His record of time. The bone-tiredness threatened to drive him to his knees, but pulled a chair over to the bed, and settled in for another vigil.

* * *

Treville snapped awake with a start and a firm conviction that he was being watched. That was true. Porthos had woken before him, and now sat on the edge of the bed, this time his back straight and shoulders relaxed, staring at Treville with narrowed eyes. He didn't look away on realising that his object of study was awake, and he didn't say anything either. The sun had come around to the edge of that window, marking early afternoon.

"You're at my house," Treville said finally. He wasn't sure how much of that morning Porthos remembered. He wanted to ask how Porthos was, but didn't know how to do it without sounding utterly asinine.

Porthos nodded. "Yes. Thank you."

He didn't say anything else so Treville made to get up, only to find that his back had finally had it and completely locked up while he was asleep. He groaned and sank back into the chair. "I should retire," he muttered, not really meaning to say the words aloud.

It made Porthos' mouth twitch up, not quite a smile, but a wry grimace at least. "Pity the poor bastard who takes over."

"That's why I haven't," Treville agreed. He'd found that if he leaned forward slightly and dug his knuckles into the groove either side of his spine, eventually something would shift enough for him to stand without blazing pain. So far it had not.

Porthos watched him sympathetically, having lapsed back into silence. It made Treville uneasy. While Porthos wasn't exactly loquacious, he'd never been taciturn either. He had a good sense of what the situation needed, and rarely let a silence become unsettling. 

Falling back on practicalities, Treville said, "You're off duty until tomorrow morning, longer if you want. When you come back, I won't put you on palace guard until after the negotiations are concluded."

"Right," Porthos said. He looked down at his hands, formerly draped over his knees, now tightening into firsts. "You should have let Marsac kill the bastard."

Treville couldn't entirely disagree with that, even though last bastard Marsac had tried to kill was Treville himself, the man he'd decided carried more responsibility than the one who'd actually swung the sword. "It would have meant war," was all he said.

Porthos shrugged. "We're always at war."

"Not like that."

"No, I guess not." When he looked back at Treville, his expression was closed. "Best if I don't see him. Ever."

"As far as it is within my power, you will not," Treville promised, fervently hoping that he could keep it. "Is there anything else I can do?" If he thought it would help, he'd assign Porthos courier duty to Toulouse, or Moscow, but he didn't imagine being away from his friends for that long would do him any good, and he couldn't spare all four of them.

Another shrug. "Not much to do. It happened. It's done. That's the end of it." He didn't looked like he believed that any more than Treville did. What he looked was miserable. "Where are the others?" he asked suddenly, not needing to specify who he meant.

"Athos and d'Artagnan have the palace guard," Treville had left instructions with Athos the day before; he disliked responsibility but took to command so naturally that occasionally he didn't notice that he'd been left in charge. "Aramis should be at the garrison, working through a weapons inventory." Another soldier he did his best to keep as far away from the Duke as he could manage; in a few years, he wouldn't have anyone to guard the King at all. Whatever knot have been locking up Treville's back finally popped free, and he stretched in relief. "I told Athos that you and I were on special assignment to do with late-night meetings at the palace."

A small huff of breath indicated what Porthos thought of that bit of creativity. "I'm glad you asked me first," he said. "Athos wouldn't have–" He stopped, pursing his lips, then looked up, his dark eyes seeming to look through Treville. "He needs to believe in the Musketeers."

The words took Treville's breath away, but he didn't have time to answer, even if he could have thought of one.

His reprieve came as a brief knock barely preceded the door opening, and Jeanne came in with a tray. "I heard you were awake," she said, waving them both down as they struggled to rise. "I thought M. du Vallon might like some chocolate." Treville opened his mouth, unsure how to express his astonishment, but Jeanne sent him that same little flick of her tray-encumbered fingers that she'd used to order them to sit. "Don't worry, I made you one too." She set the tray on the sideboard, and added. "Don't forget to ask M. du Vallon to stay for lunch. I've had Cook hold something over it until you two woke up." Then, in a swirl of skirts, she was gone.

"That was my wife," Treville said, when the door closed again.

"I figured that out, sir." Porthos stayed where he was while Treville rose and portioned out two small cups of melted chocolate. Jeanne cut it with milk, stretching out her tiny, expensive hoard – her one vice, she called it – and it poured a light, creamy brown. When he took his cup, Porthos said, "I've never had this before."

Treville couldn't imagine that he'd even been able to afford it, and indeed Treville barely could. He meant to warn that it was bitter, but the first sip told him that Jeanne had honeyed the hell out of it. She only drank it this sweet on sad days, which told him how wretched they must have looked coming in.

They drank in silence, a little more comfortable for having something to do with their hands, but still carrying the weight of expectation. Treville sensed that something needed to be said between them, but damned if he knew what it was.

Every soldier knew that their life was a thing for the King to spend, hopefully honourably, hopefully for the good of France, but not always in either case. What they didn't tell boys who looked up and yearned to be great was that the King could spend your honour, too. Porthos must have known that a long time since, and he'd certainly known it last year as Marsac returned, but Treville could almost see the weight of it resting on him nonetheless. He wondered if – next time bullets were flying and impossible choices needed to be made in an instant – Porthos would follow him with the same confidence he always had, of if he'd hold back, not trusting Treville's command. It would be a blow to lose such a fine soldier, but Treville knew the harder hit would be knowing what he'd allowed to happen to so good a man.

"I'm sorry," he said, not knowing what else he could say, but unable to stand the thought of letting it lie a moment longer. "This should never have happened, not to you."

Porthos set his cup on the side table, moving slowly so as not to spill the remaining contents. It seemed like the exaggerated care of someone drunk on liquor or exhaustion, but when he looked up, his jaw was tense with fury, and his eyes burned. "Don't," he snapped. "It didn't 'happen;' I made a choice, and I'm going to deal with it. You've done enough, Captain."

Treville felt his lips press flat to hide any expression, and he nodded tightly. He'd judged wrongly, he realised; he shouldn't have said anything. Porthos was correct, however, Treville certainly had done enough to him. He took another sip of chocolate, but the sweetness turned sickly on his tongue, and he had to put it aside.

Apparently his expression wasn't as opaque as he'd hoped, as Porthos sighed and said, "Hell. I didn't mean it like that that." He leaned forward, bracing his forearms on his knees, and ducked his head to catch Treville's gaze. "What he did to me, he made me feel like I was nothing, like worse than dirt. It must have made him feel big to do that to a man like me, and it made me think–" He broke off, blinked, and refocused, "When you don't have a name or a home, never mind any money, it's pretty easy to get it in your head that they have all the power and you don't have any, and that's probably true most days, but if you start to believe you haven't got anything you can do for yourself–" He shook his head. "I was nothing, and now I'm a Musketeer, and if I didn't let anything they said or did keep me from getting that, I sure as hell ain't going to let them take it away now. That's what I kept thinking last night,"

His anger and determination came as a relief to Treville, who was used to dealing with young men who ran more to choleric than melancholy. This time, he didn't flinch from Porthos' gaze, saying, "I know that you're strong; it's why you were the first I asked. I remain sorry for what he did to you. You're my man, and I mean to look after you as best I can. Now," he concluded, laying a hand on Porthos' wrist to soften the words; there were bruises there as well, and he touched as lightly as he could, "Do you want a bath and a hot meal or not?"

Treville's words seemed to settle the fight in him, and he was relieved to see that Porthos hadn't flinched from the touch. Now Porthos looked at Treville's hand curiously, as though he'd never seen it before. Slowly, he turned his wrist so that Treville's palm lay across his own, then pressed his hand. "That'd be good, sir." He pitched his voice low and sincere, soothing but for the edge of amusement, and Treville felt his shoulders relax, as much as they could for the stiffness, and his mouth curl up into a small smile.

Maybe it was the touch – an offer of intimacy not necessity, and something he but rarely allowed himself with his men – but his heart glowed with affection for the young man in front of him, for all his boys, no matter how much grief they brought him. "You'll be all right," he said gruffly, and finally stood, pulling Porthos up with him. He cupped the side of Porthos' neck with his free hand and promised, "I know you will."

"Yeah." The afternoon's changeability now swinging back, he sounded small and broken again, but his arms were as strong as ever as he pulled Treville into an embrace. He had to stoop a little to press his face against Treville's shoulder, and the power of his grip about the small of his back popped something else loose.

Had it been his little Alain clinging to him thus, Treville would have stroked his hair and crooned half-remembered nursery songs until he'd wept for all the unfairness of the world and settled into a boneless heap in Treville's lap. He'd have promised to that he was safe, and that his father would take care of him, that nothing bad would happen to him again.

They were meaningless, empty words, even for a boy, Treville knew, and Porthos was a grown man. Nor was he crying, though he breath sounded a little ragged. He would not benefit from being treated as a boy, not a soldier. So Treville did not do as his heart demanded, but settled for a careful return of the embrace, letting his hands rest high on Porthos' back where he remembered no bruises, and trying to breathe evenly. If he had to blink his own eyes dry, then at least there was no one there to see.

They stood that way for a long time, until at last Porthos pulled free. His hands remained on Treville's shoulders for long enough to take two deep breaths, then he stepped back. Though his back was straight and shoulders back in the easy posture of parade rest, he looked at the floor and muttered, "Sorry, Captain."

Treville shook his head. "Whatever you need," he said, and realised he should have promised that before.

"Yeah," Porthos said, then he paused, sucking at the inside of his lip indecisively. Treville waited, until at last Porthos looked up and said, "I think that helped too. Last night. I knew you were there, and it was pretty hard to think that no one cared what happened to me."

Difficult, but not impossible. Treville knew that he'd remember those tiny, hopeless whimpers for the rest of his life, no matter what Porthos said or did. He hoped that he would have years of rolling belly laughs, careless grins, and half-shamefaced, half-defiant admissions of some completely cock-eyed scheme in which he and his brothers had engaged, new memories to paper over the old, even if not completely.

Treville cleared his throat, knowing that Porthos was waiting for him to set him loose into the world. What had passed between them that morning, and the night before, would remain locked, not denied but still set aside from the regular roles of a captain and his soldier. "Come on," he said, voice rough and not from anger, "I need to eat and get back to the garrison before Aramis gets bored, and burns the place to the ground."

Porthos grinned, an expression that curved his lips up and showed a flash of teeth, but didn't crinkle around his eyes. Treville supposed it would do, for now, and clapped his arm. He started for the door, expecting Porthos to follow, and turned when he didn't hear his tread. Porthos, it seemed, had retrieved the little cup of chocolate, and was in process of downing it. Before Treville could say a word, Porthos found his cup and drank that as well. "This stuff is all right," he said.

"Don't get used to it," Treville said, sternly refusing to smile, and they went to find Jeanne and lunch.


End file.
